Memoir of Mary L. Ware, Wife of Henry Ware, Jr. Part 17

"I have been led lately to think more than usual of the past, by Mrs. B----'s death. I believe I do not exaggerate when I rest in the idea that she was a woman of rare powers to interest and influence those around her. My own recollections bring with them a sense of almost romantic enthusiasm with regard to her; and I am quite sure that I owe as much of my conception of the _loveliness_ of a truly religious being to her exhibition of it, as to any one other source. With the thought of her in her glory, comes the remembrance of many who have been taken from time to time from our communion; and it amazes me to find how large is their number. How soon will it be, that it will become a rare thing to meet one of the companions of our childhood!... Perhaps I generalize too much from my own individual experience; but I find it so difficult to keep before my eyes the uncertainty of life, or to feel as I would do the _reality_ of the spiritual world, so busy am I with the occupations of this material one, that I should like to be recalled to the subject by some irresistible voice every hour of the day.

"I have spent this evening in our old church at the North End, for the first time upon this occasion since I lived in Sheafe Street, when Henry preached; and as I look back upon the experience I have had since that time, it seems to me I have little hope of ever being what I ought to be, when all this has had so little effect.

"_January 9._ Yesterday, heard Dr. Channing preach and administer the communion, the latter of which is more to me than even his best sermons, so great is the power of a.s.sociation.... I find I almost lose sight of some of my best _pleasures_, when I have been for any length of time free from great _trial_. In truth, all this nomenclature is wrong. Ease and prosperity make our greatest trial; we are never more blessed than when we are said to be in affliction. It is remarkable, that not one year has pa.s.sed since I began this custom of recording to you these mercies, that there has not been some striking one on the list. What is to come this year?

G.o.d knows; and in this I can rest satisfied. Henry's eyes are useless, and mine still in requisition; of course I do nothing else, except at odd moments, when he is away or asleep.

"MARY."

Mr. Ware's severe illness at this period seems to have been a crisis; for the two following years, both with him and her, were probably the best of all they pa.s.sed at Cambridge, in their freedom from sickness, their ability to work, and the amount of their work. We connect them in this respect, for it is not easy to separate their spheres and agencies, even in regard to his professional labors. Of course, we mean to imply nothing as to any special mental aid, for no woman ever made less pretension, or less attempt, at any thing more than could be done by every sensible and interested mind. But so completely did she enter into all his engagements, so constantly did she watch the degree of his strength and the effect of his exertions, and so often was she called to a.s.sist him directly, as reader or writer, from the failure of his eyes and his frequent debility, that her cooperation was not wholly a figure of speech. Then, too, her heart was as much enlisted in the welfare and success of his pupils in the Theological School, as it had been in his Boston parish. All that she had a right to know, she did know; all that a woman and friend could do for those pupils, in sympathy, counsel, encouragement, or personal aid, she invariably did. A son, then a member of the School, says of her: "As a Professor's wife, I do not think father's heart was more in the School than was hers. I suspect she knew every thing about it, and was his constant a.s.sistant and counsellor. How much directly she had to do with the young men, I cannot say. They were encouraged to be at the house, came to tea constantly by invitation, and in all sicknesses she cared for them; especially M---- and B----, who were brought to the house, and C----, and also an undergraduate, sick.

She did what she could for the dest.i.tute among them; and I remember her getting shirts made, &c., &c. I remember, too, the delicate way in which I was sent, on a cold New Year's evening, with a large bundle to an undergraduate who was friendless and penniless." There are others, and many, who could tell much more; and whose recollections of her delicate sympathy, generous aid, and unpretending goodness, will hardly suffer them to speak of her, but with silent tears. They felt her _moral_ power; and all the more, because she seemed utterly unconscious of it.

"Never have I been with her," writes one, who says he had but a common acquaintance, "no matter how short the time or slight the occasion, without the feeling of greater elevation of soul. I never knew one of whom this were truer. Virtue came out of her." And he only adds, of one connected with him, "Even now the thought of Mrs. Ware moves her more than the presence of any living friend."

While writing these pa.s.sages, we have received the testimony of another of those students, more extended, but too pertinent and valuable to be abridged.

"The members of the Theological School were always sure of her sympathy. They went to her as they would to an elder sister.

There was something peculiarly engaging and attractive about her, which we all felt, but could not well understand. Yet she did not encourage, as some kind-hearted women do, the morbid sensibilities of young men, which, even while apparently depreciating their own powers, almost always have their origin in an exaggerated egotism or some masked form of selfishness.

Mrs. Ware's peculiar excellence was, that, without encouraging such a state of mind and without repelling those who had cherished it, she, by the healthiness of her own mind and the cheerful disinterestedness of her character, dissolved the gloomy spell, and sent away her visitors with new hope and life. It was the atmosphere in which she lived, more than any particular words or acts, that made her presence in Cambridge so attractive, and so beneficent to the young at that period of life when they are likely to be in a morbid condition. To go from our rooms to her house, when we had got discouraged or worn down, was like going into a different climate. And we went back, like invalids who have been spending a winter at the South, with new vitality in our veins.

"While connected with the School, in 1834, I had a short but violent attack of brain fever. I was in Divinity Hall, and very kindly taken care of by my a.s.sociates in the School, who did for me every thing that young men know how to do in such a case. After a few days, Mrs. Ware came to see me. The bare sight of her countenance, and the sweet, gentle tones of her voice, I shall never forget. They changed the whole aspect of the room. As soon as it could be done, I was removed to her house. And the delicacy of her touch, as in my helplessness she washed my hands and face, with the air of motherly cheerfulness and tenderness, was to my diseased nerves like the ministry of one from a better world. During the months of confinement and extreme debility which succeeded, the remembrance of her kindness was a constant source of comfort, and I cannot now recall it without deep and grateful emotion."

In connection with exertions for others, it is but just to refer again to the laborious efforts, self-denial, and perpetual solicitude, to which Mrs. Ware was driven, at home, in regard to pecuniary means. The difficulty came at last to its height. They found it impossible to live as they did, and yet impossible to retrench more than they always had.

We would not speak of this so freely, did we not feel--beside the light it throws upon character and results--that it is due to the professors and ministers of all denominations, whose energies are crippled, and power of serving as well as enjoying sadly abridged, by the conflicting facts of unreasonable demand and incompetent support. Those of us who do not suffer, and are only grateful, have the better right to speak for others; and we speak in the memory, and as by the authority, of those two unsparing and n.o.ble workers, whose sentiments on the subject we well know, and whose power of usefulness should never have been hampered, as it often was, by the want of means which hundreds were both able and willing to furnish. Yes, willing; for it is no want of _generosity_ that we speak of; were we capable of that injustice, especially in the community and the family under review, we should expect almost to hear the reproof of the departed ones, whose grat.i.tude was as intense as their solicitude. Not for themselves did they feel, but for others; for the School, for the ministry; for the students who were prevented from entering the School, or forced to leave it, by poverty and the fear of debt, some of whom were retained only by promises of aid, whose fulfilment cost added labor and wearing anxiety. There is better provision now, we know; ample provision for those willing to accept it.

Still are there wants and straits in the actual ministry which are not duly considered. And this it is that is needed,--not generosity in the few, but consideration in the many, and the cooperation of all. If the inst.i.tutions of the Gospel are worth having, they are worth supporting.

If young men are expected to engage in a service that becomes every year more perplexed and exacting, they must be able to see a fair prospect of such remuneration and sympathy as will at least set them free from worldly anxiety. We believe that in no one way can the ministry be more strengthened and elevated, than by a consideration and provision, not extravagant, not large, not perhaps proportioned to the labor and reward of other callings, but _sure_; and sufficient, while it imposes the necessity of all the exertion, prudence, simplicity, and sacrifice that should be expected and be seen in the service of CHRIST, to save from all depression, and the necessity of other pursuits.

Is this a digression? No; for it entered into the daily thought, and affected the life, not only of Henry Ware, but equally of her whose life was his, and whose spirit was always striving to allay his fears, and nurse his powers and resources. Reluctantly did she consent to his taking upon himself new burdens and extended responsibilities, as he did in 1838, when his father resigned to him his active duties, by a liberal arrangement made for both of them. "While this makes us very grateful,"

she writes, "it involves more anxiety about health; but we will trust."

Just at the time of these new offices and brighter hopes on the one hand, and increased labor and danger on the other, a heavy affliction fell upon them both, in the sudden death of a sister; the first death in thirty years of an adult member of that family, from which six have since gone to the spirit-land. Ought any considerations to prevent our giving to others the Christian thoughts and high affections called forth from Mrs. Ware by that event? They were many and comforting. Some she thus expressed to Mrs. Allen, a surviving sister. "The more I dwell upon what she was, of what she was capable, and how deeply she suffered from the mere load of humanity, the more I am thankful that the season of discipline is over, the more I rejoice at the thought of what she is now enjoying. Can we conceive of a higher bliss than that which must be experienced by a soul of such capacities as hers, which has struggled, as we believe, most strenuously with temptation both within and without while here, freed at last for ever from the burden of the flesh, throwing off all obstacles to its progress in a purer state, _bounding_ forward to perfection? O, who would recall her here, even for the best happiness which this world could give her? But we are yet too earthly to part with our treasures without suffering. It is meant that we should suffer. It is a part, a most important object, of the dispensation; the inevitable consequence, too, of that which we esteem the best blessing of our existence,--our capacity for the exercise of the affections. It seems as if so great an event as I feel this to be must have great objects; and who can doubt that the improvement of those who suffer by it is the princ.i.p.al one? I have never felt this so deeply with regard to any event that ever happened to me in life. I have never had so loud, so imperious a call. O my G.o.d, give me grace to profit by this call, to be made better by the mental exercises to which it has given rise!"

At the end of 1838 we find Mary very happy, in grat.i.tude for the past and cheerful hopes of the future, with sober but not sad thoughts of the recent sorrow.

"_Cambridge, December 31, 1838._

"MY DEAR N----:

"... O that blessed thing, Faith,--faith in the truth of friendship! Among other changes, I have not yet grown old enough to lose my youthful faith in those I love; and between you and me, I begin to suspect that I never shall. I certainly do not find myself, at forty, one whit nearer misanthropy than I was at sixteen. Is this symptomatic of folly at the very core? Or is it only the effect of my superior good luck in life? Whatever it may be, I bless G.o.d for it, for I find in it too much happiness to be willing to regret it, even if it be a weakness.

"_January 9._ Just so far had I got, when I found my eyes so dim and my head so giddy that I was compelled to go to bed. And there have I been most of the time since, quite sick with one of my old attacks upon the lungs, which threatened to keep me there the rest of the winter, if it did not end in lung fever, so obstinate and violent was my cough.... I have been living in the past very much lately, from having many of Harriet's letters to read. Some of them, written in Exeter, have brought before my mind people of whom I had not thought for years; and circ.u.mstances having intimate connection with events in which I was immediately interested at the time, have unfolded a long and beautiful page of life before me, which I seldom have opportunity to recall. O that Past! what stores of wisdom and happiness are not laid up in it! Why should it be that the busy bustle of the Present hides it so much from our sight? Should we not, by an effort, give ourselves more to its retrospection, that we may profit more by its teaching?...

"But here we are, dear N., at the end of another year, certainly not growing younger, yet I think not at all losing our capacity for enjoying. So far from it, I am surprised to find, that, while with regard to some things my happiness becomes more and more every day a sober certainty, it does not in the least diminish my susceptibility of enjoyment from any new source that chances to present itself from day to day. In fact, it is a much more agreeable thing to grow old than I expected to find it. This is not strange, you may say, in my case, whose blessings increase with every year. Truly it is so, and I never felt it more than at this present. Never since I was married could I look back upon a year of such freedom from sickness in my own family; never was my husband so well for the same length of time in his preaching life; and if I had no more to be grateful for than my precious baby, who has been nothing but a comfort ever since she was born, that is enough for one year. One sad blight has pa.s.sed over us, and it has indeed solemnized our hearts, and made us feel, as we never felt before, by how slight a tenure we hold all earthly blessings.

But these afflictions serve to make us more grateful for those blessings which cannot be taken away.

"O, how I do wish you were within talking distance, that I might know whether you feel as I do about bringing up children.

I have no comfort yet in my management of my little ones. I have not yet got upon the right track, and begin to think I never shall. Lucy comes and comforts me a little now and then, and if I had her power I should no doubt have her success; but that makes all the difference in the world.

"Yours ever, in true love.

"M. L. W."

Another year closed its record with similar expressions of thankfulness, though we see that it brought sickness and discipline. But these are not spoken of as trials; for Mrs. Ware appears in fact, as well as in word, to have caused sickness to change its name and its face. It had become to her a friend, whose absence she almost dreaded. "It is so long since I have had the slightest physical drawback, that I had almost forgotten that I could be other than strong. I am glad to be reminded that I am not free from the common lot in this respect; in truth, that I am to be subject to the salutary discipline which the prospect of certain suffering and weakness, with all their possible consequences, brings to the soul." She had great faith in the relation of events to each other. She looked upon nothing in the providence of G.o.d as either accidental or insulated; every thing had a design and a connection. "If any one thing more than any other strikes me powerfully as I advance in life, gaining confirmation from every day's experience, it is the beautiful adaptation of circ.u.mstances to accomplish the great object of existence, each succeeding event pointing to some end which the other events of life have not particularly aimed at. It seems as if we had only to keep our vision clear, to find around us all the teaching which we can possibly need to bring us to perfection." She had not much respect for the common view of "circ.u.mstances," as securing all the good and accounting for all the evil in men's conduct and character. To her mind, the responsibility was as great of turning adverse circ.u.mstances to good account, as of using well the most favoring and prosperous condition. Yet here she dealt more severely with herself than with any one else; too severely sometimes, as may be the case with all conscientious sufferers who are at the same time conscientious workers.

They exact too much of their own frames. They make too little allowance for those natural limits and occasional weaknesses, for which many minds allow too much. Most of us suffer the body to be master, where it should be servant; while they of whom we speak are apt to forget that the body _will_ sometimes rule, and affect the mind unfavorably yet helplessly.

There are various intimations, some of which we have seen already, that Mrs. Ware was not free from all errors or dangers of this kind, though she soon detected them. After a short visit to Mrs. Paine, in 1839, she says of it: "I did enjoy my visit to you hugely; I do enjoy it now even more; for I was fighting all the time with an evil demon within in the shape of an uncommonly violent attack of 'Mary Pickardism,' making me feel that I might as well be out of the world as in it. But that is over; and I have learnt from it that our minds are more frequently under the control of our _physique_, than we, in our pride, are very willing to admit."

The season of exemption and favor continues; not without qualifications and exceptions, as others might think them, but without serious interruption to the labors or joys of Mr. and Mrs. Ware. And we see the effect of it in the pleasant and playful mood of the next letter.

"_Cambridge, January 1, 1841, 1.20 o'clock, A.M._

"MY DEAR N----:

"There is some difference truly between a solitary spinster sitting in her quiet parlor with her desk before her, pen in hand, without a shadow of a hope or fear of interruption from any demand of domestic duty or pleasure, and the mother of seven children, one of them a most agreeable youth of six months, with a husband and nurse to boot, to be looked after and taken care of. For instance, after a vain attempt to get all the new year's presents finished and arrayed in due order before the clock should strike twelve upon the 31st of December, 1840, I was obliged at the first date to content myself with just recording the hour with one hand, while the other held in durance the two hands of the above-named youth, who had been for the previous hour exercising his utmost power of fascinating blandishment to attract and monopolize my attention. And now I must re-date, _One o'clock, P. M., January 3d_, being my very first moment, since the aforesaid date, that I could in conscience give to the luxurious employment of writing to you. I think the said little (or, rather, large) gentleman had a strong desire to write to you himself, or he would not have been so remarkably wakeful upon that occasion; but I chose to enact the part of the dog in the manger,--if I could not do it myself, I would not let him. He is a most bewitching creature, by the way, and there is no telling what you may have lost by my selfishness. Nothing can be sweeter than a healthy, bright child of his age; there is certainly something far beyond the mere animal in the enjoyment we derive from such a creature. I am sometimes tempted, when I watch the animated expression of his little visage, to go all lengths with the modern spiritualists, and believe that there is a higher sense and fuller knowledge of the deep things of heaven inclosed in that little casket now, than can be found in it after the wisdom of the world has entered there....

"O, how the business of life thickens as one goes onward! I sometimes wish I knew whether there is ever to be such a thing as _rest_ in this life for me, wherein to breathe a little more freely, and feel it right to forget, for a moment at least, the care of the earthly. Or I should like still better to know how far it is practicable to keep one's mind at ease, and yet do all that ought to be done. It does not seem as if it could have been intended that we should be the careworn drudges that most of us are, hardly giving ourselves time to enjoy the sight of the beautiful world around us, or know any thing of that within us. I have often great misgivings upon the subject, much doubting whether it is not, after all, more my bad management than the necessity of the case, which makes me so pressed from want of time to do what I wish. But I have looked around and within in vain for a remedy for the evil.

"I am just where I was a year ago, only a little more involved from having one child more, and that one that cannot be tended by any one who is not tolerably sizable herself. This is not as it should be, (not my baby, but my incessant occupation,) and I feel the evil effect upon my intellectual and physical too,--the one becomes utterly empty, the other too crowded.

Thought is free, happily, but one uses up the material for thought if not refreshed by outward subjects occasionally; or rather one's thoughts take too uniform a track, and become morbid. I should like to peep into some other person's mind and see how the land lies; one is apt to think that no one is as wicked as himself, but perhaps the same causes lead to the same results. It would be a comfort to know, upon the old principle, that 'misery loves company.' Yours,

"MARY."

A change was approaching. The favored interval had been unusually long, and an amount of work had been accomplished of which we attempt not to give an idea. It had been to Mrs. Ware, as to her husband, a "golden age," in vigor, labor, and enjoyment. In the family, the school, and the community, both were busy, both happy. There was no diminution of care, rather an increase with an increasing family, unnumbered visitors, and interruptions, engagements, and claims, of every possible kind. But all this went on easily and naturally. A casual observer would not be likely to see that there was much done, or to be done. There was no hurry, no apparent exertion. Each caller or claimant was received so quietly, and listened to so patiently, that he might have thought he was the only one, or the favored. To be sure, Mrs. Ware felt, as we have seen, that there was no such thing as rest, nor time to do the half that she would.

But very few saw the feeling, and it prevented neither her own serenity nor others' enjoyment. Very grateful did she feel for her husband's continued health and active usefulness. At the same time, we can see that her experienced eye and watchful heart discovered symptoms of coming change,--as in pa.s.sages of her letters of different dates.

"_December 31, 1841._ I look at my husband with a sort of wonder, to find that another whole year has pa.s.sed without any serious consequences to his health. I dare not look forward for him, for it seems presumption to expect that he can be long exempt. His duties are very perplexing from their variety, and I think the effect upon his system, by hara.s.sing his mind, is really worse than a greater amount of labor would be upon a more concentrated and satisfactory object. He is the greater part of the time in that dragging, half-sick state, which leaves neither freedom of mind nor comfort of body. I often think he could be happier, and do in fact more good, in a parish, than here; and were it not that men at his time of life get to be too old-fashioned and 'conservative,' as the phrase is, to suit the rising generation, I should hope he might yet end his days in the vocation which he best loves. I would not have you suspect me of a discontented spirit; but my heart leaps at the idea of parish-meetings in my own parlor, and other _pastoreen_ enjoyments. But I have no care about the future, other than that which one must have,--a desire to fulfil the duties which it may bring.

"_January 16, 1842._ I have been prevented by all sorts of things from finishing this; it is not worth while to enumerate them. I will only say, that for the last fortnight I have had little thought or time for any thing but preparing my husband for a six weeks' absence. Not that I had so very much to do for him (although it is a different thing to poor folks, to live where their clothes can be mended every day, or must go without mending for six weeks); but he has been very unwell lately, and I am so little accustomed to the idea of his going away sick without going with him, that I found it very hard to bring my mind to submit to it. I did not feel quite clear whether it would be right to let him go, in the hope that change of scene and occupation would do him good, or to prevent it from fear that the necessity of the case would tempt him to exert himself, whether he was able or not. However, he has gone; and went too upon the anniversary of dear Dr. Follen's loss. But I have heard of his safe arrival in pretty good case, and I hope for the best. Yet I am a very baby at the prospect of so long a separation. Truly one's affections do not become blunted by age,--do they?"

What _her_ affections were appears in the letter which she had already written to her husband,--written in fact the very night of the day he left her; for her heart was full. Its quick, keen sensibilities told her that this was more than a common parting. Seldom had Mr. Ware gone from home since they were married, without being sick, or without her going to him. And though she had not the least superst.i.tion, nor even indulged gloomy apprehensions, she held herself ready for the worst, and saw reason at this time to expect some decided result from such a journey in mid-winter, with all that had preceded it. Before she slept, therefore, she gave utterance to the emotions--prayers and blessings we might call them--which were yearning within her.

"_Cambridge, January 12, 1842, 1/2 past 11._

"DEAR HENRY:--

"And you are really gone! And notwithstanding I have looked forward to this moment for so long a time, and, as I thought, realized over and over again all that I should feel when it should arrive, I am ashamed to find how little all my antic.i.p.ations have prepared me for it. I do not mean to overwhelm you with an outpouring of all my woman's weakness, but I could not go to bed without saying, 'Good night to you, dearest.' I have a quiet faith that all is well with you, and I have much hope that this expedition will result in good to your mind and body both. I can say from my heart, 'G.o.d speed you!'

And the thought that His care is over you reconciles me to having you withdrawn from mine, as nothing else could do. I feel that, in your absence, great responsibilities rest upon me, and I cannot therefore go to my solitary chamber for the first time without many solemn and affecting thoughts. But my hopes are bright, and my confidence unshaken; and I can send my mind forward with a cheerful trust, although the tear will come to my eye. So good night, again. I know your thoughts are with me, as mine with you, and that this union in the spirit can never cease, whatever may betide our outward being.

"_Friday Evening, 14th._ Thanks for your letter,--and many most grateful thanks to the Giver of all good for your safety! It could not be but that the recollection of the past should be present to our minds; it was good that it should be so, and I trust it has not been without great blessing to our souls. For myself, I almost feared that I was a little superst.i.tious, or rather inclined to forebode evil; for I feel so much that we have been peculiarly blessed in having so many times had threatened evils averted, that, upon every new exposure, I find I am inclined to think it is presumption to expect exemption this time; and I never felt this more strongly than now. I hope I have behaved well outwardly. I have tried to do so, but the struggle has been very great. This experience is a new lesson of trust and comfort for us. May it have its due influence!

"Farewell. Blessings be with you!

"M. L. WARE."